The initial days following Élisabeth's departure bore a certain strangeness.
The academy continued its course as it always had. Lectures commenced at their appointed hours. The corridors remained thronged with students engaged in the same familiar discourse.
Even the small garden behind the astronomy building appeared precisely as it had before.
Yet, for some reason, everything felt a fraction quieter.
I still frequented the library in the afternoons. I still occupied the same desk. I still opened the same volumes. Yet the chair opposite my own now remained perpetually vacant.
For the first few days, I attempted to persuade myself that the change was of little consequence. That life at the academy had never truly hinged upon the presence of a single soul.
However, on the third afternoon after her leaving, an academy servant entered the library and called my name.
"A letter for you, Mr Laurent."
I recognised the script upon the envelope even before I had taken it in my hand. A neat, slightly slanted hand—far too familiar to be mistaken for any other.
I broke the seal with care. Within lay a single sheet of parchment. I read the opening line twice before venturing further.
Adrian,
This new academy is far more vast than I had imagined.
The lecture halls are grander, the library more magnificent, and the gardens far more meticulously tended.
Yet, thus far, I have found no one capable of explaining why sunflowers so favour the spiral pattern.
I am beginning to suspect that this academy suffers from a lack of one overly serious mathematics student.
— Élisabeth
A smile found its way to my lips even before I had reached the final line.
Several students at neighbouring tables glanced my way briefly before returning to their books.
I read the letter once more, more slowly this time. The sentences were simple, yet they felt significantly more alive than most of the tomes I had ever read within those walls.
I penned a reply that very night.
At first, I was uncertain how to commence. Writing of mathematics felt too stiff; writing of my sentiments felt... perilous.
Ultimately, I merely wrote in the same manner I was accustomed to speaking with her.
A few days later, a further reply arrived. And after that, another letter. Then another still.
Slowly, a new habit took form. Every few days, a servant would bring an envelope bearing that increasingly familiar hand.
And each time it occurred, a day that had previously felt unremarkable would suddenly grow far more interesting.
Some of her letters were long; others were but a few paragraphs. Yet all shared a common quality.
Élisabeth always found a means to make our conversation feel as though we were still seated across from one another in the academy library.
One afternoon, I received another from her.
Adrian,
I walked through the academy gardens this afternoon.
The grounds are quite beautiful.
The trees are planted with such precision, and the stone paths form a pattern that is almost too perfect.
Yet, strangely, the place feels far more desolate than the small garden behind the astronomy building.
Perhaps it is because there is no one there to explain to me that nature is always more interesting when one attempts to understand it.
Do you still frequent that garden?
— Élisabeth
I read that final question several times. Do I still frequent that garden?
I realised that I did, indeed, still walk there. Sometimes after a lecture; sometimes after reading in the library.
Not because the place held any particular merit of its own, but because it was there that the greater part of our conversations had taken place.
I wrote my reply that night.
I explained that the garden appeared much the same as before.
That the wooden bench near the great tree remained in its place. And that a few autumn leaves had begun to carpet the small stone path nearby.
Yet, as I neared the end of my writing, I noticed something peculiar.
Without my truly intending it, the nature of our letters had begun to shift.
Initially, we wrote of books. Of lectures. Of theories. Yet now...
I began to write of things I had never truly discussed with anyone. Of my days. Of the small occurrences that brought her to mind. And from the way Élisabeth wrote in return, I sensed she was doing much the same.
Weeks later, upon receiving one of her letters in the library, I opened the envelope with a touch of curiosity.
Adrian,
I am beginning to realise something curious.
When I first arrived at this academy, I thought it would prove far more interesting than our old one.
I was mistaken.
This place is indeed larger. Yet there is no conversation that feels quite as quiet as our talks in the library.
I am not certain if it is because the library here is too grand...
or because you are not seated across the table.
— Élisabeth
I stared at the letter for a long while.
For someone who had always sought to explain the world through logic and numbers, I suddenly found that a few simple sentences could be far more confounding than any formula.
I closed the letter with care.
Then, I took up the blank book she had once given me. It remained almost entirely void. I opened the first page, where she had written her inscription:
For the things that cannot always be explained by numbers.
I gazed at the words for a moment. Then, I began to write upon the following page. Not a formula. Not a scientific observation. Merely a simple sentence.
The first I had ever penned in that book.
Concerning someone who, despite being far away in another city...
somehow still managed to make this academy feel a little more alive.